She had no wish to convey the impression that she had been waiting for him. She met him as if by accident, hailing him with surprise that rang genuine.
“Hallo, Barry, just in time for tea! I know you don’t usually indulge, but you can do an act of grace on this one occasion by cheering my solitude. Peter looked in for ten minutes but had to hurry away for an engagement, and Gillian is not yet back.”
His face was haggard but he smiled in reply, “All right. In the library? Then in five minutes—I’m a little wet.”
In an incredibly short time he joined her, changed and immaculate. She looked up from the tea urn she was manipulating, her eyes resting on him with the pleasure his physical appearance always gave her. “You’ve been quick!”
“Yoshio,” he replied laconically, handing her buttered toast.
He ate little himself but drank two cups of tea, smoking the while innumerable cigarettes. Miss Craven chatted easily until the tea table was taken away and Craven had withdrawn to his usual position on the hearthrug, lounging against the mantelshelf.
Then she fell silent, looking at him furtively from time to time, her hands restless in her lap, nerving herself to speak. What she had to say was even more difficult to formulate than her confidence to Peters. But it had to be spoken and she might never find a more favourable moment. She took her courage in both hands.
“I want to speak to you of Gillian,” she said hesitatingly.
He looked up sharply. “What of Gillian?” The question was abrupt, an accent almost of suspicion in his voice and she moved uneasily.
“Bless the boy, don’t jump down my throat,” she parried, with a nervous little laugh; “nothing of Gillian but what is sweet and good and dear … and yet that’s not all the truth—it’s more than that. I find it hard to say. It’s something serious, Barry, about Gillian’s future,” she paused, hoping that he would volunteer some remark that would make her task easier. But he volunteered nothing and, stealing a glance at him she saw on his face an expression of peculiar stoniness to which she had lately become accustomed. The new taciturnity, which she still found so strange, seemed to have fallen on him suddenly. She stifled a sigh and hurried on:
“I wonder if the matter of Gillian’s future has ever occurred to you? It has been in my mind often and lately I have had to give it more serious attention. Time has run away so quickly. It is incredible that nearly two years have passed since she became your ward. She will be twenty-one in March—of age, and her own mistress. The question is—what is she to do?”
“Do? There is no question of her doing anything,” he replied shortly. “You mean that her coming of age will make no difference—that things will go on as they are?” Miss Craven eyed him curiously.
“Yes. Why not?”
“You know less of Gillian than I thought you did.” The old caustic tone was sharp in her voice.
He looked surprised. “Isn’t she happy here?”
“Happy!” Miss Craven laughed oddly. “It’s a little word to mean so much. Yes, she is happy—happy as the day is long—but that won’t keep her. She loves the Towers, she is adored on the estate, she has a corner in that great heart of hers for all who live here—but still that won’t keep her. In her way of thinking she has a debt to pay, and all these months, studying, working, hoping, she has been striving to that end. She is determined to make her own way in the world, to repay what has been expended on her–”
“That’s dam’ nonsense,” he interrupted hotly.
“It’s not nonsense from Gillian’s point of view,” Miss Craven answered quickly, “it’s just common honesty. We have argued the matter, she and I, scores of times. I have told her repeatedly that in view of your guardianship you stand in loco parentis and, therefore, as long as she is your ward her maintenance and artistic education are merely her just due, that there can be no question of repayment. She does not see it in that light. Personally—though I would not for the world have her know it—I understand and sympathize with her entirely. Her independence, her pride, are out of all proportion to her strength. I cannot condemn, I can only admire—though I take good care to hide my admiration … and if you could persuade her to let the past rest, there is still the question of her future.”
“That I can provide for.”
Miss Craven shook her head.
“That you can not provide for,” she said gravely.
The flat contradiction stirred him. He jerked upright from his former lounging attitude and stood erect, scowling down at her from his great height. “Why not?” he demanded haughtily.
Miss Craven shrugged. “What would you propose to do?” He caught the challenge in her tone and for a moment was disconcerted. “There would be ways—” he said, rather vaguely. “Something could be arranged—”
“You would offer her—charity?” suggested Miss Craven, wilfully dense.
“Charity be damned.”
“Charity generally is damnable to those who have to suffer it. No, Barry, that won’t do.”
He jingled the keys in his pocket and the scowl on his face deepened.
“I could settle something on her, something that would be adequate, and it could be represented that some old investment of her father’s had turned up trumps unexpectedly.”
But Miss Craven shook her head again. “Clever, Barry, but not clever enough. Gillian is no fool. She knows her father had no money, that he existed on a pittance doled out to him by exasperated relatives which ceased with his death. He told her plainly in his last letter that there was nothing in the world for her—except your charity. Think of what Gillian is, Barry, and think what she must have suffered—waiting for your coming from Japan, and, to a less extent, in the dependence of these last years.”
He moved uncomfortably, as if he resented the plainness of his aunt’s words, and having found a cigarette lit it slowly. Then he walked to the window, which was still unshuttered, and looked out into the darkness, his back turned uncompromisingly to the room. His inattentive attitude seemed almost to suggest that the matter was not of vital interest to him.
Miss Craven’s face grew graver and she waited long before she spoke again. “There is also another reason why I have strenuously opposed Gillian’s desire to make her own way in the world, a reason of which she is ignorant. She is not physically strong enough to attempt to earn her own living, to endure the hard work, the privations it would entail. You remember how bronchitis pulled her down last year; I am anxious about her this winter. She is constitutionally delicate, she may grow out of it—or she may not. Heaven knows what seeds of mischief she has inherited from such parents as hers. She needs the greatest care, everything in the way of comfort—she is not fitted for a rough and tumble life. And, Barry, I can’t tell her. It would break her heart.”
Her eyes were fixed on him intently and she waited with eager breathlessness for him to speak. But when at length he answered his words brought a look of swift disappointment and she relaxed in her chair with an air of weary despondency. He replied without moving.
“Can’t you arrange something, Aunt Caro? You are very fond of Gillian, you would miss her society terribly; cannot you persuade her that she is necessary to you—that it would be possible for her to work and still remain with you? I know that some day you will want to go back to your own house in London, to take up your own interests again, and to travel. I can’t expect you to take pity much longer on a lonely bachelor. You have given up much to help me—it cannot go on for ever. For what you have done I can never thank you, it is beyond thanks, but I must not trade on your generosity. If you put it to Gillian that you, personally, do not want to part with her—that she is dear to you—it’s true, isn’t it?” he added with sudden eagerness. And in surprise at her silence he swung on his heel and faced her. She was leaning back in the big armchair in a listless manner that was not usual to her.